


Homecoming

by transjewdean



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Non-Graphic Violence, Second Kinslaying | Sack of Doriath, celegorm centric, yet another Celegorm's Last Thoughts fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27820270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/transjewdean/pseuds/transjewdean
Summary: As Celegorm lays dying in the halls of Menegroth, his first and truest love comes to bring him home.
Relationships: Celegorm | Turcafinwë/Oromë
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Homecoming

“You’re trembling, my love.”

The words are whispered into Celegorm’s ear, in a language that he hasn’t heard in centuries, since the night that he took his father’s Oath, breaking another Vow, made ages earlier.

The voice, also, is one that Celegorm has not heard since that faithful night, though he recognises it instantly; deep and soft, like the shade beneath forest trees at night.

“Oromë,” Celegorm whispers, his voice weak, through the pain in his chest. There’s blood on his mouth - his lips are split, he knows; can feel the dry skin cracking as he moves his lips.

“I am here, my Tyelko,” Oromë says, and Celegorm feels the Vala’s breath on his neck, his jaw, his cheek, warm and wet, and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

If it wasn’t for the burning pain in Celegorm’s chest and the blood loss leaving him cold and trembling, he’s certain his cock would be hard. Stars above, he might be getting hard anyway; his body is certainly doing its best to react to the arousal pooling in his stomach - he feels his cock twitching, trying to fill up with what little blood is left in his body.

He can’t hold back a wry chuckle at his situation: he’s bleeding out in Doriath, mortally wounded by Lúthien’s brat, his left knee cap has been crushed completely under the weight of some dead Sindarin warrior, his ancient lover is whispering in his ear, and his cock is getting hard.

The chuckle burns in his chest and then he’s coughing up blood again; it fills his mouth, running over his lips, down his cheeks, he feels like he might choke on it.

Phantom hands touch him gently, lift his head so he can spit out the blood, then strokes his chin, his cheeks, his mouth, clearing away the blood. Celegorm wants nothing more than to kiss those hands _(he knows them intimately, knows every callous, every scar, knows their strength, and how gentle they can be despite it)_ , to be held in the arms of the one they belong to.

“My most beloved,” Oromë whispers, “my beauty.” His breath ghosts over Celegorm’s lips and he parts them, half-expecting to be kissed, yet still surprised when phantom lips press against his own for but a moment.

Then Oromë’s lips and hands disappear, and a lump forms in Celegorm’s throat. Trying to swallow a sob, he begs, “my lord, forgive me my betrayal.”

His voice cracks halfway on the last word and then he’s weeping silently. In truth, losing Oromë, losing Oromë’s love, his trust, is the worst pain that Celegorm has ever felt. Worse than the physical pain of Dior’s sword between his ribs and his crushed knee; worse than watching his father burn to ash before his eyes; worse than burying his grandfather; worse than losing Aredhel; worse than loving Lúthien; worse than losing Húan.

How different things would be, Celegorm thinks, if he had chosen to honour his Hunter’s Vow over his father’s Oath. He certainly would still have Oromë’s love.

“Hush, fair one, there is nothing for me to forgive,” whispers Oromë, and Celegorm sobs with relief at feeling his presence again.

Then phantom lips are pressed to Celegorm’s forehead in a soft kiss, and Oromë says, “relax, Tyelko. Let go.”

And for once, Celegorm doesn’t fight, doesn’t question, doesn’t argue, doesn’t go against what he is told out of spite or pettiness. He simply does as he is told; closes his eyes, falls into the darkness.

Arms slide around his waist, and pulls him close to a firm chest. A mouth is pressed to Celegorm’s, a beard scratching his chin and his upper lip, and he realises that death isn’t an ending.

Death is a homecoming.

**Author's Note:**

> Come and chat with me on [tumblr](https://www.transjohnsilver.tumblr.com) xx


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